A Study In Pink
by KassandraScarlett
Summary: Meet Dr. Jean Watson, an army doctor invalided from Afghanistan, and Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective. Full summary inside.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I recently got hooked into this amazing serial and fandom and realized I ship Watson and Holmes together. The problem is that I'm really uncomfortable with writing a romance between two male characters. So, instead, following my mom's advice, John Watson is going to become Jean H. Watson. Please, give this a chance.**

* * *

 **A Study In Pink**

Gunfire. Bullets hitting the sand. Six soldiers; four men, two women. Unrelenting sun. A gasp of pain. Panic as one of them fell over with a bullet in his chest. Another one bent over him, trying to stem the bleeding. The sound of two more bullets hitting their mark. Another strangled cry of pain. Then, "Jean!"

The sound of someone screaming my name woke me up and I found myself in a light sweat, sitting upright as my hands fumbled for my gun. It wasn't there. Of course, it was in my desk. It was a dream. I wasn't in the desert, I wasn't trying to dodge snipers. I was in a small pensioned flat. In London. Away from the war. Safe and sound. And useless.

Not for the first time since I'd come to the house (I loathed calling it a 'home'), I found myself glaring at the walking cane that rested against the desk. I hated it here, I decided. Hated the monotony, the endless routine, hated it all. What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? It was one of the things I considered putting in the blog I was supposed to write, but the words never came quite right, no matter how long I stared at the blank screen of my laptop, only the words 'The Personal Blog Of Dr Jean H. Watson' written across the top.

Later, though, when I was at my therapist, I knew the lack of words wasn't the problem. "So, how's your blog going?" The dark woman asked and I lied without thinking. "Yeah, good. Very good." It was no use. Ella raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You haven't written a word, have you?" She asked, while she quickly scribbled something onto her notepad. Instinctively, I found myself saying accusingly, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." "And you just read my writing upside-down," she countered. "See, what I mean?" I guess I had the decency to blush lightly. Meanwhile, Ella sighed. "Jean, you're a soldier, a born fighter. It's what helped you get so far ahead in the army as a woman. So, it will take you time to adjust to civilian life. But, I promise you, writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help." My embarrassed smile had faded away. Now, I gazed back at my therapist in despair, knowing she would never understand the reason for my depression, and unable to explain it to her, because, really, what kind of person enjoyed the thrill of living so dangerously? But, I couldn't stop the words escaping my mouth. "Nothing ever happens to me."

* * *

The park was mostly empty in the afternoon, which was precisely why I chose that time to go for a walk, instead of in the morning or evening like normal people would do. I didn't need everyone's constant staring and undisguised curiosity, all of it directed towards the cane in my right hand (which I shouldn't even have needed, according to my therapist, because the bullet had done no lasting damage and apparently the limp was psychosomatic). The angry thoughts forced me to walk at an even brisker pace, my hair swirling around my face in the wind. I almost didn't hear my name called out.

"Jean? Jean Watson?" I turned around in surprise to see a stout man with a congenial face and a pleased smile hurry towards me. "Stamford, Mike Stamford." He held out a hand as I placed the face and name. "We were at Bart's together, remember?" "Mike, goodness, yes. Yeah, I remember." "I know," he grinned, gesturing at himself. "I got fat." "No, not at all…" I stopped when Mike raised a teasing eyebrow. "Well, okay, yes, you did," I huffed, laughing. "So, what's been happening with you?" He asked. "Last I heard, you were somewhere abroad, getting shot at." His eyes then focused on the cane and he seemed to put two and two together. "Oh…" "Yeah, I got shot," I laughed bitterly. The awkward silence lasted for a few seconds. I hadn't seen Mike even once in the years since I'd graduated, or anyone else from back then, really. Joining the army did that to a person. But all the same, I was starved for some company, so when Mike finally offered coffee and idle chit-chat in a bid to break the sudden ice, I couldn't refuse.

"So, what're your plans? Staying in London till you get yourself sorted?" I scoffed, all while pretending to be oblivious to the concerned gaze Mike had trained on me. "I couldn't afford London on an army pension, Mike." "But you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," he added shrewdly. "That's not the Jean Watson I used to know." "Well, I'm not," I finished bluntly. Another awkward silence.

I shifted the cup of coffee to my right hand. At the same time, my gaze fell on my left, shaking uncontrollably, and I curled my fingers into a fist to stop it.

"So, why not get a flat share, since I'm sure you're probably still too stubborn to ask Harry for help?" I didn't bother arguing with the last part of his sentence; he was right. Instead, I smiled indulgently and rolled my eyes. "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" It wasn't self-pitying, just the truth; no one would want to share living space with someone who couldn't walk right and couldn't help around the house. Mike understood that, surely. But, when I looked around at him again, he had a strange, knowing smile on his face. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today," he mused and I frowned. "Who was the first?" I asked curiously and he chuckled. "If you don't mind having a guy for a flatmate, I think I might be able to find you one right now."

* * *

"Bit different from our day," I couldn't help but laugh, as I limped into the lab behind Mike. There was already a young man in there, bent over some equipment with a pipette in his hand, though he looked older to be a student. He looked around my age, in fact. Teacher, maybe? Or doctor? "Oh you have no idea," Mike was saying, when the man looked up at us. Giving me a quick look over, he said, "Mike, can I use your phone?" As Mike answered, I raked my eyes over him as well. Tall, really tall, pale, smooth skin, contrasting with the mop of long black curls on his head and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. In short, a very good looking man. I bet some of the students found it difficult to concentrate in his classes, if he were, in fact, a teacher. I bit back a reminiscent smile as old memories of shared giggles, teasing smiles and whispered confessions among close friends about crushes and dates, all made a foggy reappearance in my thoughts. "Well, mine's in my coat, sorry," Mike was apologizing and it brought me back to the present. "Here, you can use mine," I offered, my left hand bringing out the phone Harry had gifted me and holding it out. "This is an old friend of mine, Jean Watson," Mike informed him.

The man blinked at me, before getting up to take it. "Thanks," he said, before turning away and rapidly typing something on it. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" For a second, I was confused. Then, he looked up at me expectantly. "Sorry?" Was all I could get out before he repeated, "Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?" Shooting a confused glance at Mike, who was smiling smugly, for some reason, I stammered, "Afghanistan. But how did you…?" I was interrupted again, this time by a pretty woman carrying two cups of coffee. She was definitely a doctor, going by her lab coat and the air of professionalism, even though she had a small flirtatiously hopeful smile as she approached the dark-haired man. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you… what happened to the lipstick? Your mouth looks too small now." Molly sighed helplessly and left the room again. "How do you feel about the violin?" It took me another few seconds to realise he was still talking to me. "The violin?" I repeated in confusion. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He flashed me a charming smile that probably would have rendered me a bit speechless, if I hadn't started to find him a tad bit presumptuous. "Who said anything about flatmates?" I asked testily. "I did," he replied easily. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't that difficult a leap."

I was starting to doubt the man's mental faculties now, in spite of the fact that he hadn't said anything factually wrong. Meanwhile, he wrapped a scarf around his neck, returned my phone and kept talking. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He began walking towards the door. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." As I caught sight of Mike's stifled smile, I felt a surge of… annoyance? Curiosity? Interest? "Is that it?" I demanded, causing the man to turn back towards her. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" He frowned, like he actually couldn't see anything wrong with the situation. "Problem?" He asked and I rolled my eyes. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name," I told him.

The man stared at me with a small smirk and leaned on the door. Abruptly, I got the feeling that I was being X-rayed, as intense grey eyes focused on me like a laser. "I know you're an Army doctor, you were at a very high position, in spite of being a woman, which earned you that much more respect from both your superiors and colleagues and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." I shifted awkwardly, but not daring to move much under a scrutinising stare. The man's smirk widened into a real smile. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He leaned a little closer, like he was sharing a secret and said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." With a click of the tongue, a mischievous wink and a parting word to Mike, he turned on his heel and left.

For half a minute, I was stunned. When I was able to move, I looked towards Mike only to find him watching me with a hopeful and pleased look. "Yeah, he's always like that," he affirmed. I caught the unsaid message: Give it a shot, please. It will be good for you.

I glanced at my phone, pulling out the messaging app, and read the last message sent: If brother has green ladder, arrest him. SH.

As I stared at the screen in bewilderment, a small smile graced my lips and several thoughts came to mind.

What was a riding crop doing in a mortuary?

The man was most definitely neither doctor nor teacher, but someone working with the police force.

I had already made up my mind to meet him the next day before he gave me the address and

If Mike was right about him being just that way all the time, then life with Sherlock Holmes could be very interesting.

* * *

 **Review guys, please. They really do give me the motivation to write. Compliments, criticisms, suggestions, whatever you want.**


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm going to switch POV's with every chapter, so both perspectives get across. Sorry, for the long wait.**

* * *

 **Sherlock's POV**

I hated needing something. I hated the feeling of being dependent, even on something as trivial and necessary as food. It was one of the things I loathed about myself; that I absolutely needed something to rack my brain on. Because when I was bored or idle, my powerful imagination went into hyperdrive, working overtime to taunt me with fantasies of companionship, friendship, feelings. The only problem: I could never bring myself to care much for people who hated me for my intelligence, for being… different. Really, just because they were so hopelessly stupid... This was why I didn't try too hard to find a flatmate; even though I could admit, if only to myself, that I needed one, needed the company that a skull couldn't provide.

But I'd gone through six flatmates in eight months, all of whom had run out after failing to put up with my eccentricities. I had made a game of it: whenever I met a potential flatmate for the first time, I made sure to outline my annoying habits and even made some rapid deductions out loud, then, depending on their initial reaction, predicted how long it would take for them to break. The reactions usually ranged from insulted, furious to a certainty that I was raving mad, which was true, just not in the way they assumed.

This was why I was right now eager to meet Dr Watson. Her reaction had been none of the above. Sure, she'd been slightly embarrassed at having her limp pointed out, but I had spotted the intrigue in her eyes. And that intrigue had piqued my interest as well.

As the cab turned into Baker Street, I recalled all the conclusions I'd reached on seeing her the first time yesterday: _Bearing and posture: military, high post, confident… conversation: medically trained at Bart's… limp and tremor: psychosomatic… triggers:?_

So, I predicted it would be several months before Dr Watson gave up. That would be a record, so I made it a point to try and be nice to her. "Please, call me Sherlock," I said, as I held out a hand. She shook it firmly. "Jean," she replied. She was leaning heavily on her cane and her left hand was stuck into her jacket. "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive." "Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal," I waved it off. I neglected to mention that I didn't actually need help with the rent, that I was perfectly able to afford it myself. "Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Jean frowned a bit. "You stopped her husband being executed?" "Oh no," I smiled and rang the bell. "I ensured it." Letting her trail behind with a confused look, I stepped in as soon as the door opened and briefly hugged the elderly woman who opened it. "Ah, Sherlock, hello, dear," she giggled with a maternal fondness and I stepped back. "Mrs Hudson, Dr Jean Watson."

As soon as the doctor had exchanged pleasantries with the landlady, I ran up the stairs to the first floor. I wasn't sure why, but I wanted to try and cure the limp and tremor that plagued the woman. Probably because of my affinity for fixing unsolvable problems, which this definitely seemed to be. When she caught up, I opened the door to the living room. "Well, this could be very nice, indeed," Jean said appreciatively. "My thoughts precisely," I replied happily. "So, I went right ahead and moved in." "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out." Both of us stopped at the same time, embarrassed, as we looked between each other and the mess all around. I suddenly had the urge to try and make a better impression and hurried forward, picking up random notes and stuffing them in a box. "That's a real skull," I heard Jean mumble and looked around to see her inspecting the object on the mantelpiece with curiousity. "Friend of mine," I told her. "Well, I say friend…" Mrs Hudson came in just as Jean took a seat on the small sofa near the fireplace. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing it," she told her with a giggle. A confused look took over Jean's face. "Well, of course, we'll be needing it…" she started to say. She stopped when a man walked in. "Sherlock," he began, but I interrupted. "Fourth suicide?" I asked, knowing I was right. Lestrade nodded, confirming it. "So what's different about this one?" I asked. Lestrade wouldn't have come to me if there hadn't been something out of the ordinary. "There's a note."

I had to fight a smile. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you." Lestrade turned to leave. His eyes fell on the doctor, but only for a second, before walking out. "Oh, yes," I exclaimed as soon as he was out of earshot, pumping my fist in the air with a short jump. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas."

I did a happy spin. "Mrs Hudson, I'm going out," I called. "I'll be late, so have dinner ready. Something cold will do." I darted into my bedroom to dress, as my landlady muttered something about not being my house keeper.

Pulling on my gloves, I suddenly remembered that Anderson would be working the forensics for the scene. I couldn't have that. And I did need an assistant, someone who's knowledge of the anatomy was better than mine. Anybody with proficient medical training would do. But Anderson, being an idiot, wouldn't work with me, and I shuddered at the thought of asking Molly. That left…

"Damn my leg!" I smiled to myself at the outburst. Waiting for Jean's embarrassed apologies to stop, I opened my door and found the doctor bent over the paper. She had a small frown and I knew she had recognized Lestrade from the photo of the Detective Inspector on the front page. Well, time to see if my other deductions about her had been right.

"You're a doctor," I stated, pulling on my gloves. Jean glanced up, her dark blonde hair swinging behind her ears. "Yes." "Any good?" I kept my tone serious, though I knew the answer already: she was much better than Molly, Anderson, or anyone else I could find. "Very good," she corrected, standing up. I quickly noted how she had to push her weight on her cane, but seemed to forget it as soon as she was on her feet. "So, you've seen a lot of violent deaths." "Yes." "Must have seen quite a bit of trouble too, I'll bet," I murmured, stepping into her personal space. She was quite short, so she had to tilt her head back to look at me, but even so, there was a new sharpness in her eyes, that would have been intimidated even me, if she'd wanted it to. But, it was more hopeful than frightening. "Quite a bit, yes," she replied quietly. "Enough for a lifetime, in fact, too much." And there it was: a subtle longing in her voice that completely negated her words. "Wanna see some more?" "Oh God, yes," was the feverish reply and I felt a sudden thrill of kinship as I sensed Jean follow behind as fast as she could with her limp.

* * *

"Okay, you've got questions," I commented. I could feel Jean's curiosity everytime she glanced at me, which was quite often. "Yeah, where are we going?" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'd thought that was obvious. "Crime scene; next?" This time, Jean frowned a bit. "Who are you? What do you do?" ' _Oh, now this is the interesting part.'_ "What do you think?" I wondered. "I'd say private detective…" she answered slowly, turning to look out the window. "But the police don't go to private detectives." I smirked. "I'm actually a consulting detective," I corrected. "Only one in the world. I invented the job." If Jean heard the unmistakable pride in my voice, she didn't comment, letting me continue. "Whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me." "The police don't consult amateurs," Jean scoffed and I gave her a look of incredulity. "Yesterday, when I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq', you looked surprised," I reminded her. She turned towards me again. "Yes, how did you know?" "I didn't know, I saw," I told her. "The way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. Same goes for your tremor. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

I paused, sensing she had another question. "But how did you know I have a therapist?" This time, I did roll my eyes. "You've got a psychosomatic limp and tremor, of course you've got a therapist." I then went on to explain my deductions about her brother, Harry Watson: drunk, divorced, concerned. "How the hell did you know about the drinking?" Jean muttered and I smiled, at the same time deciding not to tell her the reason behind her tremor and limp. "Shot in the dark; a good one, though." I pointed out the scratches on her phone, explaining their significance. "You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them."

A silence fell in the cab. I felt suddenly uncomfortable and turned to look out the window to avoid Jean's silent scrutiny. Where was the anger, the annoyance? ' _Best opportunity in so many years and you blew it. Well done, Holmes,'_ I thought bitterly, as I waited nervously for Jean to say something. I felt the instant she looked away from me, but her words shocked me.

"That… was… amazing." They were spoken with undisguised admiration and I spun my head around to face her. "Really?" I asked, unsure if she was simply joking. She didn't seem to be. "Of course, it was; it was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." I felt a small smile creep in, along with a sense of relief. Later, I would wonder why I'd felt so relaxed around her, especially as she assured me she meant what she said. "That's not what people normally say," I admitted in a murmur. "What do they say normally?" "Piss off."

A short chuckle escaped the doctor and I felt my smile grow wider.

"Did I get anything wrong?" I was curious as we began walking towards the police. "Harry and I have never gotten along, Harry and Clara are getting a divorce and Harry's a drinker," Jean reeled off. "All right, then," I mused to himself. Though I pretended otherwise, I wasn't so narcissistic as to believe I was always one hundred percent right. Then, Jean added, " Harry's short for Harriet."

I stopped short. "Harry's your sister," I muttered. "Sister!" "Seriously, what am I doing here exactly?" "There's always something," I fumed as we resumed walking and approached the police tape. Sgt. Sally Donovan was standing guard. "What are you doing here, freak?" She sighed. "Lestrade wants me to take a look at the body, I _think_ ," I replied mockingly. She grudgingly lifted the tape to let me enter. "Who's this?" "Donovan, this is Dr. Watson, my colleague. Jean, this is Sgt. Donovan, _old friend_ ," I introduced, waving a hand between them, heavy sarcasm on my last words. I pulled Jean's jacket sleeve lightly to get her to follow me into the building, only to be stopped by Anderson. "I'd rather you not contaminate the crime scene, freak. Just because you've impressed the inspector with your parlor tricks, doesn't mean I'm fooled too," he says in a haughtily voice. I immediately shot back, "I know. Even know that Sally came over to your house to have a nice _chat_ and happened to stay over." Ignoring the man's indignant spluttering, I glanced back towards Donovan, who had followed us, and looked pointedly at her knees. "Even scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Quickly, I side-stepped the Forensics Officer and entered the building, stifling a smile when I saw Jean peer at Sally's knees as well, trying to spot something out of the ordinary.

Inside, Lestrade began reeling off the facts of the case. "Who's this?" He cast a calculating gaze over my companion. "She's with me," I answered shortly, not quite sure why I hadn't explained her credentials. Jean didn't seem to mind, though, and followed Lestrade up the stairs, trying to hide her limp.

The victim was a blonde woman, in her thirties, dressed in a skirt, blouse and jacket, all in an alarming shading of pink, even her high heels. She was lying face down in the wooden floor and one of her hands was near a scratched message on the panelling: _rache._ Going by the state of her fingernails on that hand, she'd scratched it in herself. "That was meant to spell 'Rachel'," I pointed out immediately. "Find out who she is and what's the connection to the victim." Lestrade muttered a few short words to one of the Yarders waiting outside, then looked back at me. "Shut up," I muttered, the thick silence disturbing me. "I didn't say anything…" "You're thinking and it's annoying." Immediately, Lestrade shut up again and I felt myself ease into the familiar routine.

For exactly eighty-five seconds, I observed the body, walking around it, checking her jewellery, her collar and sleeves. At one point, Anderson appeared, spouting something about Germany. "Yes, thank you for your input." Shutting the door in his face, I gestured to Jean, who'd been watching just as silently, but with a curious excitement. "Dr Watson? What do you think of the body?" Glancing apprehensively at Lestrade, she approached my spot on the floor and painfully lowered herself to the floor, while I quickly checked my phone. "What am I doing here?" She asked in a hiss. "Helping me prove a point." _'Two points,'_ I internally corrected myself. ' _One: these people need me for their problems as much as I need them for metal stimulation, so if I bring someone with me, it would be someone much more qualified and easier to work with than any of their men. Two: there is nothing even remotely wrong with you, physically at least .'_

Jean was sniffing the body, her eyes raking over the skin of her hand. "Asphyxiation, choked on her own vomit. No alcohol. Probably a seizure, maybe drugs or poison." With a satisfied hum, I stood up and Jean copied my movement, while Lestrade eyed me expectantly. "She's from Cardiff," I started and went on to list all I could glean from the body. _Age: late thirties. Long nails, pink clothes: works in the media. Old wedding ring: ten years of marriage. Clean jewellery, ring polished only on the inside: marriage troubles and serious adulterer._

"If you're making this up," Lestrade started threateningly and I almost groaned. Did we have to go through every single time? "Look, her wedding ring is obviously old," I explained. "The rest of her jewellery is clean, but not her ring; state of marriage, right there. But the ring is clean from the inside, so the only polishing it gets is when it rubs against her skin while removing it. She's in the media, going by her clothes, she didn't work with her hands, so she removes it for a person. So, affair and they don't know she's married, or she wouldn't have bothered removing it every time. But not one lover; many, because she couldn't keep up the façade for too long." "That is brilliant!" Both of us turned at the exclamation to see Jean blush. "Sorry," she mumbled. "You said Cardiff," Lestrade reminded me. "How?" I blinked at him in a stupor. It was so obvious. "What's it like in your funny little brains?" I wondered. "Must be so boring." I waved my phone in front of his face. "Her coat's slightly damp. So she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time and the size of her suitcase suggests she's from out of town. Under her coat collar is damp as well; she'd turned it up against the wind." I shifted to point at her coat. "There's an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" I waved the phone again. "Cardiff."

"That's fantastic." The awed tone caught my attention and I turned to find Jean staring at me with wide eyes and an open mouth. "Do you know you do that aloud?" I asked quietly, leaning into her space again, so Lestrade wouldn't hear me. Jean winced at my words, biting her lip. "Right, sorry, I'll stop." "No, no don't," I assured her, a little frantically. It had been a while since someone had expressed actual appreciation. As much as I hated it, I was only human. I did need to be complimented now and again.

"You said 'suitcase'," Lestrade said. "Yes, where is it?" I turned back to find him with a slightly smug smirk. "There isn't one," he told us. "There was never any suitcase. What makes you think she even had one?" Dumbfounded, I pointed at the victim's right leg. "Splash marks from dragging a case in her right hand. You can't see them on the left leg and only suitcase wheels give that pattern of splash marks," I said absently. Where could it have gone? She was driven here, obviously, by the murderer. So… "Sherlock!" I ignored Lestrade's call as I abruptly bounded down the stairs. "None of them are suicides; we have a serial killer. You can't catch a serial killer, till they make a mistake!" I shouted as the DI hurried after me, with the doctor still standing at the top, looking down at us. "What do you mean; we can't just wait for a mistake," Lestrade snapped. "We don't have to. He's already made one." "What?!" "Pink," I yelled behind me, before running out to search for the pink suitcase.

* * *

 **Review, guys, please!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Also, I'm kind of mixing up the pilot episode and the aired episode, plus I'm changing a bit of the dialogue, because, my memory isn't that perfect and I'm not allowed to type while watching it. Also, because it becomes easier to fit it into a written story.**

* * *

 **Jean's POV**

I gripped the edge of my bed in an attempt to calm myself. It didn't work; I could still feel the man's fingers gripping my wrist, could feel Sgt. Sally Donovan's judging gaze. Both their words spun in my head, as I sat in the bedroom of the pensioned flat. ' _Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?' 'You're not his friend.' 'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.' 'He doesn't have any friends.' 'Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?' 'One day, we'll be standing over a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it.' 'You're under pressure now, yet your hands are perfectly steady.' 'He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.' 'You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it.' 'Stay away from Sherlock Holmes.'_

What was it about that man that prompted everyone to think he was dangerous? Donovan seemed to think avoidance was the only way to go. The strange man thought him dangerous enough to want me to spy on him for money. Yet he claimed to care. Yes, Sherlock was a bit strange, but he was also lonely. It had only taken me half an evening to see that; didn't these people who apparently had been working with him for some time now, know that? It wasn't really surprising, the lack of friends, I thought. Sherlock's 'deductions' gave him a treasure trove of knowledge and knowledge was power, power which, I had a feeling, he wouldn't exploit, but also wouldn't hesitate to use if needed. Not to mention that arrogance and general rudeness.

' _You met him yesterday and since then, you've moved in with him and are now solving crimes together.'_ I winced at the memory. Maybe the man was right. I'd been observing Sherlock too much if I already knew this little bit about him. Maybe I should stay away.

As soon as I had the thought, my phone rang with an incoming message. ' _Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH'_

I took a second to wonder how the man had my phone number, then placed the phone face down on the bed. I was going to stay away from him. Bending down, I removed my shoes, just as the phone rang again. Grudgingly tamping down the faint thrill of anticipation, I read the message: ' _If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH.'_ I pursed my lips angrily and went to stand out the window, the phone clenched in my hand. I wasn't angry at Sherlock, no. I was upset with myself for wanting to go to him. Both Donovan and the man had been right, I'd known it the instant the words left their mouths. Sherlock was a dangerous man to be around, not because he was a psychopath, but because he attracted danger like moths to a flame and I was _thirsty_ for danger. But still…

The phone chimed a third time and I grit my teeth, trying to fight the urge to check the message. Brushing my hair back, I gave in and read it. ' _Could be dangerous. - SH.'_

* * *

"Sherlock?" The man was sprawled over the couch, both eyes closed, one hand pressing into wrist of the other. And the other arm, I noticed with surprise, had what I recognized as three nicotine patches. "What are you doing?" I asked in horror. "It's hard to maintain a smoking habit in London. Bad news for brainwork," he said in lieu of explanation. Dimly noting the click of the 'k' at the end, I crossed over to the armchair by the fire. "Good news for breathing," I muttered. "Breathing's boring."

Rolling my eyes, I turned to look at him. "Well, you asked me to come, so I'm assuming it's important," I said. He looked at me with one eye open. "I need to borrow your phone." He stretched one hand out, but I was still processing his words. "Why not use your own?" I asked, though I guessed that, if he actually had arch-enemies, it would be risky. "There's a chance it might be recognized," he confirmed my thoughts, as I fished out my phone to hand to him. "Since it's on my website." I frowned. "Mrs Hudson is downstairs," I pointed out. "I was on the other side of London." He shrugged flippantly. "There was no hurry."

Biting down on the sudden annoyance I felt, I asked, "So, is this about the case, then?" "Her case, yes, the suitcase. Taking it was the murderer's first mistake," he whispered, keeping his hands in a prayer position under his chin. As I watched him, I felt a prickle of discomfort at the back of my neck. Moving over to look out the window at the street, I tried to quell the feeling. Though, I couldn't relax my hold on the cane, nor could I stop fingering the object I'd stuffed into the waistband of my jeans before leaving for here. My gun.

"Something wrong?" I looked back to find Sherlock watching me with a frown, both eyes finally open. "I met a friend of yours," I told him. The frown deepened, now with surprise mingled in. "A friend?" He repeated, confused. "An enemy," I corrected myself. Immediately, his confusion cleared. "Which one?" He was calm again. "Your arch enemy." The frown returned. "Did he ask you to spy on me for money? Did you take it?" His voice was sharp with suspicion and I hurried to assure him. "Yes, he did, no, I did not." "Hmm, pity," he replied. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." I blinked a little in confusion, then shrugged it off, sure I had only imagined the relief in his words. "So, who was he then?" I asked instead. "The most dangerous man you'll never meet," he spoke in a whisper. "And not my problem right now."

He sat up and tossed the phone. I caught it with difficulty and joined him on the chair across him. "I need you to send a text to this number," saying, he handed me a slip of paper. I began to type it in. "Jennifer Wilson," I read out. "Hang on, isn't that the dead woman?" "Yes, but that's not important," he waved it off. "These words exactly: ' _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out._ _Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'_ "

I stopped typing to frown at him in concern. "You blacked out?" "What?!" He started. "No, no of course not." I finished typing, as Sherlock got up and dragged a large suitcase over to the coffee table. I hit send and looked up to see it full of a woman's belongings. A second passed before I noticed the colour. Pink. "That's… that's Jennifer Wilson's case," I pointed, rather pointlessly. He looked up at me. "Perhaps, I should mention, I didn't kill her," he said sarcastically. The tone made me bristle, but I chose my words carefully. "Never said you did." "Why not?" He challenged. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her suitcase, it would be a perfectly logical assumption." "Do people usually assume you're a murderer?" I ignored his jibe. "Now and then," he smirked and I was reminded of what Donovan had said. But the years in the army had taught me to identify who joined to serve and who joined simply for a reason to kill. The man in front of me was not a murderer. So, I changed the topic again.

"How and where did you find it?" I asked. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," he started. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case," he gesticulated wildly, "Without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

I stared at him in awe for nearly a minute. "You got all of that because you thought the case would be pink?" I summed up in a weak voice. "Well, it had to be pink obviously," he stressed. I thought about the woman lying dead on the floor and decided he was right. "Why didn't I think of that?" I mumbled quietly. "Because you're an idiot." I threw him an insulted look, to which he threw both hands up in a placatory gesture "Oh don't give me that look, practically everyone is," he scoffed and I found I couldn't exactly argue. "Now," he continued. "There was no phone on the body and there's none in the case." It suddenly dawned on me that I had sent a message to a dead woman's phone. "Sherlock, why did I just send that text?" I asked suspiciously. "Well, the question now is where is her phone?" He spoke slowly, trying to get me to understand his point. I did. "With the murderer." I felt a wave of horror. "Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

As if on cue, the phone began to ring and both of us stared at the lit-up screen. **(Withheld) calling.** "He's panicked," Sherlock hissed and I looked up to see a childlike glee on his face. He stood up and began pulling his coat and gloves on. "Why are you talking to me about this?" I was curious to know what part he'd planned for me to play. He nodded towards the mantelpiece. "Mrs Hudson took my skull," he muttered. "So, basically, I'm filling in for your skull," I stated blandly. "Relax, you're doing fine," Sherlock assured me.

"Well?" He looked at me, waiting. "Are you staying here and watching telly or coming?" I laughed incredulously. "What, you want me to come with you?" "I like company when I go out," he shrugged. "I think better when I talk out loud and the skull just attracts attention." He flashed a brief smile and I laughed in response, but I still didn't move. He seemed to pick up on something wrong. "Problem?" He asked, as he finished wrapping his scarf. "Sgt. Donovan," I answered. "She said you get off on this. You enjoy it." He stared at me in noncholant disbelief. "And I said 'danger'," he pointed out. "Yet here you are."

He left the room, his long coat swishing behind him. I tried to sit still and count to a hundred. I gave up at fifteen and with a growl of "Damn it," I pushed off from the chair and tried to catch up to him in the street, just as, I didn't doubt, he had known I would.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sherlock's POV**

"You really think he's stupid enough to come here?" Jean questioned and I chuckled, as we walked into the restaurant and sat at my usual place near the window. "No, I think he's just brilliant enough," I corrected. "I love the brilliant ones, they're always so eager to get caught." Jean frowned. "Why?" Normally, I would have been annoyed at someone asking me so many questions, but Jean seemed truly curious, not mocking, so I reveled in the chance to be able to explain it to her.

"Appreciation! Applause!" I gestured outwards. "At long last the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, Jean: it needs an audience." Jean raised an eyebrow and bit her lips. She was trying to hide a smile. "Right," she agreed in a solemn voice and shot me a pointed glance. I gave her a tiny scowl, though I knew she was right; I was a show-off, but she was already looking at the menu. I looked out the window at the busy streets. "Twenty-two Northumberland Street," I muttered, just as Angelo came up to us. "Good to have you back, Sherlock," he exclaimed,clapping me on the back with enthusiasm. I tried not to cringe; I really wasn't comfortable with people touching me so casually; except Mummy. And Daddy. And my old dog, Redbeard. But, he shouldn't count; he wasn't human. "I'm not his date!" I focused again to see Jean glaring at Angelo with annoyance. "Anything off the menu, whatever you want," Angelo said seriously. "I'll cook it myself." "Thank you, Angelo," I said sincerely and Jean gave her order. "I'll just come back with your food and some candles; make it more romantic, yes?" "I'm not his date," Jean repeated, a little exasperated this time, and Angelo just winked suggestively and left. I'd given up on Angelo a long time ago. He, and all people really, just saw what they wanted to see. "You might as well eat," I told Jean. "We could be a while." She nodded absently, then cocked an eyebrow. "Aren't you?" I had to think about it. "What day is it?" "Wednesday." "Only three days. I'm still okay for a bit," I decided. Jean's eyes widened. "You haven't eaten for three days?! How are you still on your feet? You need to eat," she hissed. I blinked in curiosity. She was concerned…? Oh right, doctor. It was second nature for her to worry about patients, or people's health in general. "No, _you_ need to eat. I need to think," I assured her. "The brain's what counts. Everything else is just transport." "Well, you might think to refuel," she pointed out.

Angelo came over with Jean's dish and candles, and Jean, after sighing at it in resignation, started eating. "So, any girlfriend?" She asked, in-between spoonfuls. "No, girlfriend, no," I said absently. "Not really my area." I was looking out the window intently, so I didn't realize what I'd said to give Jean pause, until she spoke again. "Alright, a boyfriend, then?" I looked over to see her scrutinizing me intently. "Which is fine, by the way," she hurried to add. "I know it's fine," I blurted out. There was a short awkward pause. "So, then…?" "No," I stated firmly. "Okay, fine. So," she struggled for something to say. "Unattached, then, like me. Good, okay." She started eating again, and I looked back out the window. But, Jean's words played around in my head. _'Unattached, then, like me.'_ Could it be then…? Oh, dear God, I hoped not. It would make everything so awkward, if she did move into Baker Street. I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. "Jean, you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any kind of…" "No, no, no." The woman shook her head frantically, her blonde hair swinging slightly. She was pretty, I noticed absently, in an understated kind of way. ' _Delete that, Holmes,'_ I told myself, as I did every time I noticed such things. Thank goodness, it worked all the time. "I wasn't trying to ask you out, I was just asking. All I'm saying is, it's all fine," she assured me. She gazed at me earnestly and I knew she meant it. So, I nodded and turned back to the window, while she resumed eating.

I'm not sure how much time passed, but it passed in silence. It wasn't awkward, but comfortable. Until finally, I spotted what I was looking for. "Jean." The doctor looked up and followed my gaze. There was a taxi cab, parked near the opposite shop. "Nobody getting in, nobody getting out," I mused. "What, that's him?" "Don't stare," I ordered. "You're staring," she accused. "Well, we can't both stare. Come on."

I grabbed my coat and scarf and dashed out. The cab had a hire. I ran towards it, ignoring the car that nearly run me over, choosing to vault over it. "Sorry," I heard Jean call out. Too late. The cab pulled away. "I got the number," she told me. "Good for you."

I blocked out everything, all the noise, the people, everything, and concentrated on the route the can would take. I knew every step, every street and alley of London. I could outpace the cab. _'Focus,'_ I told myself. There, I had it. Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights. "Let's go!" I cried. And we took off.

I took us up a building staircase and up on to the rooftop. I already had adrenaline rushing through my veins, but I felt an additional thrill when I realized Jean was right behind, hot on my heels. I leapt over to the next rooftop. Almost immediately, I felt Jean's momentary absence, her brief hesitation. "Come on, Jean! We're losing him!" I yelled and that was all the encouragement she needed. She took the jump, landed flawlessly on her feet and took off running again. Within minutes, we were back on the ground. I could see in my mind that we would cross the cab. We would catch him… We would… No! The cab took another path. Damn it! It passed us by, just as we reached the point of intersection. "This way!" I yelled and took a right. "No, _this_ way!" I called yet again, as Jean took a left, following the cab by instinct. "Sorry," I heard, but I ignored it. No time, no time, just focus, run, run, RUN!

I ran out into the path of the cab, forcing it to halt. "Police!" I brandished the badge I always carried in my pocket and yanked open the door. "No!" I groaned the instant I saw the man inside. "Teeth, tan- you're American." Jean was beside me, staring at the man as well. He gazed up at us with confusion. "I'm sorry, are- are you the police?" "Yeah, everything alright?" I waved the badge in his face, feigning noncholance. "Welcome to London." Smiling falsely, I turned away and walked a few metres. Jean joined me in seconds. "Wrong country, good alibi," she noted. She was only slightly panting, to my surprise. I could hardly breathe.

"Hey, where did you get that? Here." She nearly snatched the police ID badge from my hand and looked it over with amusement. "Lestrade?" She inquired, reading out the name. "Yes, I pickpocket him when he gets annoying," I shrugged. "You can keep that one, I've got dozens at the flat."

I looked around, trying to hide my lack of breath from Jean and trying to get it back as well. I was cursing our bad luck as well. It was just a cab that happened to slow down. I was watching the American approach a traffic police, when a stifled giggle caught my attention. "What?" I wondered, looking over at Jean. She was shaking her head. "Nothing, just… Welcome to London!" She laughed again and I found myself smiling brightly as well. "Got your breath back?" I gestured towards the American who was pointing us out to the policeman. "Ready when you are." With a shared wink, we started running in the direction of Baker Street.

* * *

"That… was ridiculous," Jean gasped, as we collapsed against the wall in front of the stairs inside 221B. "That was simply… the most ridiculous thing… that I have ever done." We rested our heads against the wall. "You invaded Afghanistan," I reminded her and we both dissolved into helpless childish giggles again. "That wasn't me alone," she pointed out.

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" She questioned, after a few seconds. "Oh, they can keep an eye out there," I waved dismissively. "It was a long shot anyways." "So,what were we doing there?" She asked. "Oh, just passing the time." I cleared my throat, looking at her with obscured excitement before continuing. "And proving a point." "What point?" Her confusion was real and I realized she hadn't even noticed the lack of a cane in her hand. The fact that she had just chased a cab across London _on foot_ hadn't even struck her yet. I had to laugh briefly again. "You," I told her. Her look of surprise was priceless. "Mrs Hudson," I called, instead of explaining to Jean. "Dr Watson will take the room upstairs." "Says who?" Jean challenged with a smile. I returned it, quite easily, I found. "Says the man at the door."

Right on cue, there was a knock. Staring at me for a few seconds in amazement, Jean went to open the door. "Sherlock texted me," I heard Angelo say. Jean looked back at me through the doorway, holding her walking stick. Her eyes were wide, making it easy for me to read her. I wasn't really were good at recognizing and understanding human emotions, but the ones that were playing on her face were obvious to even me. Glee, thankfulness, kinship. I grinned back at her. My assumptions had been right: Jean would make a good roommate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Jean's POV**

"You really think a pretend drug-bust is the way to make me cooperate?" Sherlock demanded sassily. "It stops being pretend if we find anything," Lestrade countered. Anderson, Donovan and a few other Yarders were rummaging, all of whom, I guessed, Sherlock had given a good dressing down at some point or another, were rummaging about in the bedrooms and kitchen. "What, this guy, a junkie?" I asked. I found the notion laughable. "Have you seen this man?" Sherlock turned towards me, biting his lip nervously. "Jean, you might want to shut up now," he hissed and I looked up at him in astonishment. His eyes were dark with guilt and shame, much to my shock. "You?" I asked in a whisper. "I'm clean. Have been for years. I'm _clean._ " He had turned back to Lestrade, but I could tell the words were also for me. And to my on going surprise, I believed him.

"Yes, but is your flat? All of it?" Lestrade taunted, with a smirk. "For goodness' sake," Sherlock was getting exasperated. "I don't even smoke." He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the nicotine patch on his arm. Lestrade's smirk grew wider. "Neither do I." He rolled up his own sleeve to show the same thing in his own arm. "So, let's work together. We found Rachel."

That caught Sherlock's interest. "Who is she? Where is she?" "Her daughter; she's dead." I frowned as Sherlock yelled, "Excellent. There must be a connection." "I doubt it," the DI responded dryly. "Rachel Wilson was her still born child, fourteen years ago."

I grimaced, while Sherlock visibly deflated. "Why would she mention her then?" He wondered. Anderson laughed mockingly. "Why would she think of her dead daughter in her last moments? You really are a psychopath, not that we needed any more proof." Sherlock wheeled around furiously. "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research," he snapped. "And she didn't _think_ about her daughter, she scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying; it would have taken effort, it would _hurt._ "

"You said that they all took the poison by themselves," I spoke slowly, inviting everyone's attention. "Maybe he talks to them, you know. Maybe he used her daughter's death somehow?" Sherlock walked back to my side. "Yeah, but that was years ago. Why would she still be upset?"

I stared at him, bewildered. My expression was reflected on all the officers' faces. Sherlock seemed to realize something. Nibbling at the corner of his mouth nervously, he leaned in towards me, his eyes focused solely on me. "Not good?" He guessed in a low voice. I looked around, wondering how to answer. "Bit not good, yeah." He jerked upright again. "Okay, but if you were dying, what would your last thoughts be?" "Please God, let me live." I didn't even have to think about the answer. Sherlock groaned. "Use your imagination." "I don't have to." Again, everyone stared at me in surprise and, in Sherlock's case, guilt. I could feel everyone's gazes on me, but I held Sherlock's eyes. I could read the apology in them and it occurred to me that only I could.

"Okay, but what if you know you're going to die and you're clever, really clever?" He resumed. "Jennifer Wilson was clever, running all those lovers." He paced the room frantically. "Come on, think, think, THINK! Oh!" He stopped, freezing completely, then chuckled. "Oh, she _is_ clever. She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead." He looked around at us in glee. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." We continued to stare back at him, waiting for an explanation.

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Lord, why can't you people just think?" I shrugged. "Because we're all stupid?" I commented sarcastically, making him sigh. "Rachel is not a name," he said sternly. "Then what is it?" I demanded in the same tone. He pointed at the pink suitcase sitting on the coffee table. "There's an email address on the tag," he instructed and I walked over to look at it. Sure enough, there was an email address, which I read out. Sherlock picked up his laptop and settled at the desk. "Oh, I've been too slow," he chuckled in self-reproach. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." He was typing rapidly, opening up the e-mail website. "So the email address would be her username and the password is…?" "Rachel," I finished, the logic finally dawning on me.

"So what if we can read her emails?" Anderson scoffed. "Don't talk, Anderson, you lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock muttered. I had to stifle a laugh at that and I could see Lestrade trying to do the same. "It would be GPS enabled, which means we can track her phone," Sherlock explained. "She could have dropped it," Lestrade reasoned. "But we know he didn't," I told him and he shot me a strange look. Sherlock sets the tracker and just then Mrs Hudson appeared at the doorway. "Sherlock, there's a taxi for you downstairs…" "Not now, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock left the chair and I took his place, watching the spinning map intently. "Sherlock," I called, worried. He didn't pay attention, busy talking to Lestrade. "Sherlock!" "What?" He turned to me, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen. "It's here at 221B, Baker Street." "How can it be here?" He sounded more unsure than I had heard him all evening. "Maybe it fell out of the case and you didn't notice," Lestrade suggested. " _I_ didn't notice? _Me_?" I had to admit the notion of the genius missing something so trivial was silly. "Besides we know he still has it. We messaged him earlier and he called back," I added and again Lestrade shot me that weird look.

He turned to give his men orders anyway. I turned to look at Sherlock. He was looking out the window, with his phone in his hand, looking shaken and slightly shell-shocked. "Do you think I should try again?" He didn't answer, but looked down at his phone, comprehension smoothing his brow. "Sherlock?" I asked again. He nodded absently. "Yes, try again," he agreed. I watched in confusion as he began to walk out of the apartment. "Where are you going?" I was suddenly suspicious. "I need some fresh air." "Sherlock, are you alright?" "Yes," he answered and walked downstairs without another glance.

Confused, I called Jennifer's number and walked over to the window. There was a taxi cab, the driver standing outside. The phone was ringing at my ear and downstairs, Sherlock appeared on the sidewalk. He seemed to be chatting with the cabbie before getting in. "He got into a cab," I yelped. "He's getting into a bloody cab." I turned back to Lestrade just as the can pulled away. Donovan was glaring at him, but he looked at me. "I'm calling on the number and it's ringing out," I explained. "That means it's not here," he agreed. "It doesn't matter," Donovan finally exclaimed, just short of screaming. "He's been wasting all of our time, just running us in circles all evening and you're letting him." She was staring daggers at both Lestrade and me, but I ignored it, more concerned about Sherlock. Something about his behaviour hadn't seemed right. As Lestrade gave the order of dismissal, I resumed my seat at the desk, typing in the tracking commands again. "Any idea why he left?" Lestrade seemed to be grasping at straws, as he put on his coat. "You've known him longer, you know him better than I do," I reminded him with a frown. "I've known him for five years and no, I don't." There was a hint of bitterness in his words and I surmised that he was right in a way. I had been able to keep up better with Sherlock after having met him just the day before, than any of these people who had apparently known him for half a decade. "Then why do you put up with him?" I wondered. "Because I'm desperate and Sherlock Holmes is a great man," he said. "And maybe one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one."

He left me wondering if I should really put up with him as well, but then my eyes fell on the walking cane I'd placed in the corner. What was I thinking? I couldn't leave Sherlock. The man had done what the best doctors in the army and my therapist has failed to accomplish. He'd cured me of my limp, my tremor and most importantly, he had made me feel more alive than ever since I'd left the army.

It was a few minutes after Lestrade left that the tracker located the phone. I stared at the location for a few seconds in a myriad of emotions: surprise, confusion, realization, horror. "Oh, shit," I cursed and ran out of the apartment.

* * *

"Sherlock!" I screamed. It was in vain. I could clearly see the two figures moving in sync; one tall and gangly, the other short and stooped, both their hands moving to their mouths. I waited for something to happen, waited. And when I realized that Sherlock was going to actually take the pill, I knew I had only one option. The police wouldn't be here fast enough. I raised my gun; my hand perfectly steady; took aim and pulled the trigger. I didn't bother staying a second longer; I turned on my heels and fled, just in time as sirens filled the air.

It barely took me five minutes to position myself so that it would seem as if I had just arrived. It took another ten minutes for the Yarders to retrieve Sherlock. He didn't spot me for several minutes more as the on-scene paramedics checked his vitals. Meanwhile, Sgt. Donovan gave me the rundown on the scenes, which I listened to politely, already having worked it out.

Finally, Sherlock was left alone with an orange blanket. I didn't go to him yet. But I could clearly hear him complaining even from this distance, his deep voice drowning out everything else in my ears. "But I'm not in shock!" I listened, looking the other way, as Sherlock talked to Lestrade about the gunshot and the 'mystery gunman'. "I'd say you're looking for someone with a history of military service and…" he slowed down, making me look in his direction. He was staring at me and I found myself smiling innocently. "Nerves of steel," he trailed off. "You know what, ignore that, it's just the shock talking." He mumbled something nonsense to convince Lestrade to let him go and walked over to me, ducking under the police tape to join me.

"Sgt. Donovan was just telling me… something to do with two pills? Dreadful really…" I was rambling, though I knew he had already worked it out. "Good shot," he cut me off quietly. I stopped. "Yes, it was." "You would know," he shot back. "Where's the gun?" "What?" I was still playing dumb. "Don't… just don't," he was smiling. "Where is it?" "Bottom of the Thames." He nodded, staring at me with something akin to wonder. "Are you alright?" He asked in concern. "You have just killed a man." I took a second to think about it. "That's true," I murmured. Surprisingly, it wasn't bothering me as much as it should. "But he wasn't a very nice man," I decided and Sherlock smiled, obviously convinced. "And frankly he was a bloody awful cabbie." He laughed and I joined in. "Yes, he was a bad cabbie," he agreed with a grin as we began to walk away from the scene. "You should have seen the route he took to get us here." That set me off again, with Sherlock chuckling beside me, all the tension left over from the events of the evening draining away. "Stop it, stop laughing. It's a crime scene, we can't giggle at a crime scene," I gasped. "Don't blame me, you're the one who shot him," Sherlock laughed. "Keep your voice down," I reprimanded through my laughter. We both sighed in pure exaltation. "Dinner?" Sherlock asked. "Starving," I agreed. "There's a good Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street," he said. "You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant, by the bottom third of the door handle." I scoffed, just as Lestrade caught up to us again.

"Hang on, Sherlock," he called. "I need your statement now." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but I got there first. "Inspector, to my certain knowledge, this man hasn't eaten anything for several days." Both men stared at me in surprise. "Now, if you want him alive for your next case, then what he's going to do right now is have dinner." I spoke in the firm, cool tone that came with giving orders and I could see the effect it had on the DI. "And who the hell are you?" He challenged me anyways. I glanced once at Sherlock. "I'm his doctor." "And only a fool argues with his doctor," Sherlock added, grinning again. Lestrade looked curiously between us. "Alright, I'll pull you in tomorrow then. Off you go."

I pulled Sherlock by his coat, before he could say anything more and he fell into step by me easily. It would have been the perfect end to the evening, except then I spotted a vaguely familiar figure in a black suit. "Sherlock," I said in alarm. "That's him, that's the man I was talking about." He looked to where I was pointing and immediately, his smile morphed into a scowl. "I know exactly who that is," he growled.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sherlock's POV**

I couldn't stop smiling even as I ate dinner, the meeting with Mycroft doing nothing to put a damper on my mood. "What's got you so happy?" I looked up to see Jean raising an eyebrow at me. "Moriarty," I pronounced the name carefully. "What's that?" "I have no idea," I answered truthfully, then peered at her. She seemed strangely silent. She had been thoroughly embarrassed to know Mycroft was my brother, not a 'criminal mastermind', like she'd thought. I wondered if that was what she was thinking about and whether I should ask her. Luckily, she saved me from enquiring. "Sherlock, I need to talk to you about some things," she started and I nodded for her to go ahead. "The gun they found with the cabbie," she spoke slowly. "It was a fake." I nodded again, trying to work out where she was going with this. "Now, I've seen enough today, to know you," she pointed her fork at me. "Are a very knowledgeable man. So, correct me if I'm wrong, but you knew that wasn't a real gun." I didn't say a word, just returned my gaze to my plate. She took my silence as agreement. "So, you followed him, why?"

I shrugged casually. "I wanted to find out how he'd done it," I stated calmly. "And, he was a weak, middle-aged man. I knew I could have handled him easily if required." She nodded. "Fair enough," she conceded. "I didn't shoot him in the head, because I thought, if he were dying, you might be able to get some information out of him, like why he was doing it. Did you?" Ah, yes, I had wondered about that. She had been right in her thinking, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her how reluctant he'd been to give me the name. Because that would mean telling her how I had gotten it from him. I didn't think Jean would be very happy or even remotely okay with knowing I had tortured the man in his dying moments. "Yes, he's the one who gave me the name: Moriarty. His sponsor, apparently, someone who sent money to his kids for a every person he killed." I kept it short.

She nodded again, then took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for something. "The drugs-bust," she said and I froze, before quickly composing myself. "You said you were clean." "Yes, what about it?" I asked coldly. She seemed to notice the change in my tone, but ignored it. "Was there a time when you weren't?" She asked directly. I stared back at her blankly. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she added quickly. "And I trust you that the flat is clean. But, I've worked with ex-addicts before and there's always a slight danger of a relapse. I'm not saying it'll happen to you, but in case it does, I need to know the details so I can help..." She was rambling, so I cut her off. "Five years ago," I interrupted and she startled. "Five years ago, I started taking drugs to keep myself calm. It slowed down my brain, made it easier for me to ignore the things I noticed, to deal with the lethargy," I continued. "Mycroft was trying to get me into rehab and Lestrade just happened to stumble across me at the same time. He saw my potential and he worked with Mycroft to get me clean. He promised to keep me occupied as much as possible, as long as I never did drugs again. I don't want to do them again," I latched on at the end.

Jean bit her lips, thinking. "Alright," was all she said. "Alright?" I repeated, confused. "Alright," she confirmed. I felt an odd warmth in my chest as I mulled over her words. _'I can help,'_ she'd said. She was only the second person who wasn't a family member to have offered something like that to me, I realized.

"One more thing." I looked up to see Jean with a twisted smirk. "You were actually going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" I cursed the human tendency to blush. I'd always known my curiosity and overwhelming need to be right would get me in trouble one day, I just didn't think trouble meant my flatmate pestering me about it. "Of course not," I replied. "I was just... biding my time. Knew you'd turn up." She scoffed. "No, you didn't." She didn't even sound incredulous or disbelieving; just certain. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" She went on. "You risk your life to prove you're clever." I might have cringed at how easily she had grasped this. "Why would I do that?" I tried to act indignant. She saw right through it, if the wicked glint in her eyes was anything to go by. "Because, you're an idiot," she informed me, self-assured. I stared at her, dumbfounded. I was an idiot? Really? _'Because, you're an idiot. Oh, don't look like that; practically everyone is.'_ My own words were coming back to haunt me. Anytime, anywhere, anyone else, this would have bothered me. But, right now, here, eating dim-sums with Jean, I could only smile in delight, that someone, _someone,_ was there who understood me, saw straight through me and _didn't even care_. No, more than that. _Joined in with me._

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 **Reviews, please. And should I continue with the next episodes as well?**


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